Ashes
by Syolen
Summary: Collection of one-shots. N 17: Sometimes Winry can't go to bed at night, but she knows exactly why: there's no one to kiss her goodnight.
1. Nature Boy

Disclaimer : I don't own FMA. It owns me, though. Spoilers : Set after "Conqueror Of Shamballa".

Nature Boy

_"Cast your eyes on the ocean _

_Cast your soul to the sea _

_When the dark night seems endless _

_Please remember me"_

"Dante's Prayer", By Loreena McKennitt

He is sitting on top of a dune, facing the ocean, elbows on his knees and chin resting on his entwined fingers.

It is not an uncommon sight, really. A lone traveler resting his tired legs for a while, looking past the horizon, the ever-blowing wind playing with their hair, breathing and heart beating in rhythm with the coming and going of the waves. Some would call the picture romantic, but _he_ would certainly feel insulted by that.

Still, there undoubtedly is something soothing and comforting in the way the waves tirelessly lick the bottom of the nearby grey rocks, in the cries of the seagulls, in the way the sun reflects on the water painting it a bright silver, or in the passing of the clouds in front of said sun, casting ever-changing, hypnotic shadows on the sand. 

Some come to this shore for its wild beauty, some just to taste the fresh, salty air. But not even the wind wrapping around him and kissing his face knows why _he_ has come, what memories _he_ is stirring up. After all hehas seen and done, it would not be surprising if he had simply sought a place out of time. No past, no present or future, just and only the immutable ocean. In this world, hecould not have found a better location. Yet he certainly knows the wind cannot take hispast away, nor can itshatter it and mix it with the sand. The wind can only blow and dry his tears, if, _if_ they fall, angry or sad.

Like so many others before him, he sits there, perfectly still. Soon though, soon, when the tide comes in, when the wind becomes too fierce, biting and scratching rather than caressing, or when the next shower of rain falls, he will shrug as if awaking and stand up, will clean the sand from his clothes, casting one last glance at the scenery before him, engraving it in his memory. And then he will walk away, back to those waiting for him, whoever and wherever they may be. Just like so many others before him. Their movements are always the same. And the waves keep on moving, coming and going, back and forth, and the wind keeps on blowing.

It is definitely not an uncommon sight. Just another wanderer, although this one should never have been here in the first place.

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a/n : So here is the first one-shot. I should be posting more pretty soon. Expect angst, angst, more angst and probably some silly EdWin fluff (the world needs more EdWin fluff !) Hope you'll like them :)


	2. Kyrie

Kyrie **Disclaimer :** Even though I put it on my Christmas list, I still don't own FMA.

**Spoilers :** Episode 51.

Kyrie

It is just like that night, five years ago.

Rain. Rain falling on his maimed body, rain blending with his blood, rain drenching him to the bone, rain getting inside his mouth and nose, and the mere thought of simply moving a muscle to wipe or spit the droplets away is exhausting in itself.

Rain he's too far gone to really feel anyway, just like he was five years ago.

Random thoughts slowly drift in and out of his consciousness, and there's nothing he can do to control them, either. _Rain on his wounds_… It had hurt, back then. It doesn't now, not anymore. Physical pain now seems so futile, so pointless…

… _The fields of Resembool on a bright, warm summer day_… There's never been any brightness nor any warmth in the gloomy alley he finds himself in. There's only the cold brick wall his back is leaning on, the cold, wet cobblestones reflecting the light of the street lamp at the corner of the alley, a light that is anything but bright. The faint smell of garbage, the hammering of the rain on window panes, on gutters and drainpipes.

He doesn't call for help. After regaining consciousness, after realizing where he is, he let out a small, pitiful whimper that no one heard – that no one could have heard – and that is about as far as he will go. If no one heard him then, there is no way in this hell or in any other that someone is going to hear him now that more rain has come down, draining more blood, or so he thinks. He doesn't call for help.

… _Children's smiles…_ Two boys' and a girl's, young and golden and innocent. They can't be older than six or seven. They're smiling at him, smiling… He'd like to hug them, the three of them, hold them tight and tell them how sorry he is. Sorry for what he and his foolishness have put them through, sorry for what he has become. And for once, he is glad for the rain, because it allows him to pretend that tears are not running down his cheeks, that there are only cold droplets of unusually salty rain. He does not want the children to see him cry, he does not want their smiles to disappear… If only he was not too tired to hold back his tears…

On the ground beneath him, blood, and tears.

It is definitely not like him to wait and not try anything, as if he had already given up. Not that he could go very far with a missing arm and leg, anyway. But sill he is waiting, patiently waiting for the rain to dissolve what's left of him. According to his blood-deprived brain, his being alive is nothing more than the proof of his failure. He gave his life for his brother's, and if he's still alive, it can only mean that the Gate refused the exchange. It can only mean that he has, once again, miserably failed.

… That… That thing they created… He can imagine it staring at him with his brother's eyes, begging for help in his brother's voice way too easily, and he has never heard anything more terrifying.

On that fateful night five years ago, his brother's quick thinking saved him. But his brother will not come, not this time, and for a brief, maddening second of lucidity, he understands what being alone truly is.

On the ground beneath him, more blood, and more tears.

It vaguelycomforts him to know that he won't spend much more time a reality away from his homeland. His blood has already taken part of his soul and mind back to the Gate, and that is for the best. He's relieved to understand that he won't have to live with the weight of his failure and guilt on his heart, too. His burden is heavy enough as it is.

So he waits for the rain to wash him away, crimson droplet after crimson droplet. Maybe in the morning someone will find his body, drenched in blood and tears and rain…. He does not care, not here, not in this alien world, not anymore. His back slides down the freezing wall as he drifts further into blissful oblivion.Five years ago, he was but a child desperatly clinging to what little family he had left. He's still this same child, hiding behind pieces of a man he has awkwardky put together, a child who has understood far too soon that what was lost can never be truly found again. And for the first time in long, long years, he is a child almost wishing his father were here. 


	3. Strong

Spoilers : Briggs arc

**Disclaimer :** FMA isn't mine.

**Spoilers :** Briggs arc.

**A.n. :** EdWin-ish. Imagine they're all reunited in Central for the "final confrontation with the Bad Guys".

Strong

He comes to her every day, now. The Homonculi won't give them a break, and his automail needs constant maintenance. He comes to her at dusk or before the dawn, looking victorious or beaten – and tired, always so tired -, knocking twice on her hotel room door and whispering the names of those who have fallen during the latest fight – on both sides - as she lets him in. She wills her tears away and never cries as she hears them. She's got a promise to keep.

Not many more words are spoken. He takes off his coat, shirt and pants and sits on her bed, and she immediately starts working on his metal limbs. Alphonse never accompanies him, his armour is much tooconspicuous**.** They have her move to a new inn every day and won't risk revealing where she's hiding to their ennemies. Edward himself has traded his scarlet coat for a casual brown one and his braid for a simple ponytail.

He sits in silence as she works, eyelids half closed, savouring the calm and quietness of the room. He always leaves as soon as she's done, and Winry knows better than to tell him to stay and get some rest, even just for an hour.

Al still has his metal body and Father and his homonculi still aren't defeated. He needs to concentrate on his goals. He needs to move forward. He needs to see by himself that she's safe and sound. She knows he comes to check on her as much as she checks on him, but now that she's experienced first hand what his everyday life is made of, she doesn't have the heart to ask him what exactly has happened, and she undersands why he never told her before.

He needs her safe, and he needs her strong, too. He needs her to be able to get mad at him –not that she does, these days, but it's the spirit that matters -, to support and encourage him. To push him forward. She worries enough as it is. If she knew which atrocities he now faces, she would downright panic. But blissful ignorance lets her hope and pretend that things aren't _that_ bad, that he doesn't risk his life on a daily basis – his, and Al's, and Mustang's, and Hawkeye's, and so many others', and hers.

So she'll focus on fixing his automail, letting her hand linger on his knee or on his shoulder just a little longer than necessary, or even brush her lips against his forehead, offering as much comfort as he'll take.

She won't say a word but hug him instead, and kiss him again, and make sure that some light and strength have returned to his eyes before tightening the last screw. She'll watch him leave, eyes dry until he succeeds, her determination mirroring his. Strong.

--

Reviews, please ?


	4. Snow

He woke up to find her standing by the window

A.n. : Post-manga, but no spoilers. I needed some quiet fluff, so I wrote this. Ed wouldn't disappoint a fangirl, now would he ? ;)

Snow

He opened his eyes to find her standing by the window, slightly drawing the curtain so she could look out of it without the light disturbing him. And indeed, it wasn't the light that had awaken him. It was a soft tickling in his chest, right above his heart, a childlike excitement he now saw in her eyes too.

She didn't move as she heard the ruffling of the sheets as he got up, but a smile did grace her lips when the wooden floor creaked under his uneven steps. Strong arms circled her waist, his chin coming to rest on her shoulder. She knew he was looking at her, silently asking what had attracted her out of their warm bed at such an early hour. She opened the curtain more before breathing her answer.

"Look… It's snowing."

Golden eyes looked up, taking in the scenery before them. The hills of Resembool were already covered by a thick layer of snow but snowflakes still fell gently on branches and hedges, on roofs and frozen streams. Grey clouds hung low in the sky, giving the landscape an eerie glow in the pale morning light. In Resembool, it always snowed for hours on end. It seemed to hold the world still and muffled all the sounds, except the low whispers of the wind in the trees. Tempting. Inviting.

Edward tightened his embrace as Winry leaned into him.

"Yes… It is."

He chuckled, understanding what the excitement had come from. His brother would feel it too and wake up. Then there would be snowball fights and laughters, and they would play like the children they no longer were all morning. There would be a warm fire in the hearth and hot cocoa when they got home, letting themselves drop on the couch, too exhausted to suppress their giggles, their eyes bright with mischief.

They would have so much fun… Later.

Her hands came to rest on his and she leaned deeperinto his warmth, a light kiss on the nape of her neck coming to seal an unspoken agreement. Yes, they would run and play and laugh, but for now, they would wait for Alphonse to get up, and simply enjoy the snowfall.


	5. And You And I

It's stupid and she knows it, but she can't help herself

Warning : Post "Conqueror Of Shamballa".

And You And I

It's when she's lying alone in the dark that it happens, when she's had a long and tiring day but is still too unnerved to sleep.

She knows better than to let her thoughts wander. They inevitably bring her back to her latest worries or to some sad and wistful memory.

She closes her eyes instead, and imagines Ed and Al are here sitting next to her. She tells them about the friends they left back home, about her day, new automail designs and her clients' weirdest orders. They listen closely, asking for indiscreet details and chuckling at the answers she is more than willing to give.

They tell her about their lives in that other world, or at least about what she imagines their lives to be like there, and Ed proudly shows her a perfectly taken care of automail. That's all it takes to convince her that the scene is but a mere daydream, but she doesn't really care. She misses them.

In her mind, she tells them everything she's always wanted them to know, and their answers are exactly what she wants to hear. There are no secrets, no threats hanging above their heads. No Gate of Truth and no duties, nothing but warm smiles and playful winks. Just like in the old days, a lifetime ago. They happily reminisce, share their hopes and dreams without hiding a thing, and she can hardly stifle her dream-self's laughter when Ed complains about Al being taller than him _again_.

When she finally drifts off, her last conscious impressions are the brothers' weights shifting on her mattress as they lean forward to kiss her temple and whisper "good night" in her ear, before tiptoeing out of her room. Al always is the first to do so, and more often than not, Ed's fingers linger on her cheek for a few seconds.

It's all in her head, she knows, but it's the only way she's found to have them home, even just for a little while. She accepted they're never coming back and stopped waiting and hoping for them to years ago, but they're not _dead_, just gone, and she can't bring herself to completely erase them from her life. So sometimes, she'll indulge her little fantasy and take comfort in the brothers' imaginary presence.

In the morning, she'll wake up calm and rested. And keep moving forward.


	6. Rage

Rage

Rage

There's rage in Edward's eyes, and hatred, but that's to be expected.

Alphonse, sweet Alphonse himself looks at the chimera sitting beside him, its head pathetically bowed– no, not just a chimera, but once-lovely, once-_lively_ Nina -, and _feels_ a shiver run down his imaginary spine, his non-existing muscles twitching in response. His fists clench, and he's ready to strike, _wants_ to strike…

Edward beats him to it.

It is only then that Alphonse realizes that Tucker is speaking.

_"Fullmetal alchemist! Take a look at your limbs and your little brother! Aren't those the results of your so-called "toying with human lives"? We're the same, you and I!"_

There's rage in Edward's eyes, and hatred, and… Pain? Fear?

Edward strikes again, and again, and harder, harder every time, and Alphonse isn't listening to what they're saying anymore. What he's just seen in Edward's eyes…

Targets have changed, and Tucker leads the dance now. He smiles a victorious, vicious smile, throws truths aimed to cut deep and painfully at the boy, and Edward keeps on punching him because, goddamnit, he never _wanted_ any of this, never intended to destroy his little brother… He's going to make that bastard understand, to physically beat into him that he is no monster… He isn't, is he?

Alphonse watches, and knows it's up to him to stop them before Edward completely loses it and kills Tucker. He smothers his own anger and grabs Edward's wrist, holding him back.

"Brother, if you hit him any more than that, he'll die."

Alphonse's voice is gentle but firm, bringing Edward back to the here and now and he _lets go_ of the older alchemist because he. Is. No. Monster.

Trying very hard not to throw one last punch at Tucker, Alphonse leads him out of the lab, a comforting hand on his shoulder, thoughtful as ever.

He knows perfectly well that this is not over. They walk a tortuous and dangerous road, and innocence is more than likely to be shattered again. Alphonse just hopes he'll be able to protect his brother from himself again. That's what little brothers are for after all.


	7. Circle

Circle

A.n.: This one is post-manga and since it's so short, I added my first attempt at a real drabble at the end. 100 words, post-series and completely disregarding the movie, because fanfic writers can (HA!).

--

Circle

Winry loves these little moments, when she and Ed are lying in bed at night and she snuggles as close to him as she can, feeling him breathe and simply basking in his warmth.

He's usually reading an alchemy book, and she lazily glances at the pages. When one circle in particular tickles her curiosity, she gently nudges him and he starts explaining the symbols and lines, their meaning and purpose. It's not so much his words that she listens to but rather his voice, quiet and low, tender and loving when his cheek comes to rest on the top of her head. He loves her as much as he does his precious power.

He speaks of energy flows and Laws of the Universe. She surprises him when she innocently murmurs that she finds the intricate curves harmonious and aesthetic. _Beautiful_, she says.

He blinks and imperceptibly tenses, tilts his book slightly to one side, tries to think of alchemy as something else than a science or a means to an end, ignores the information that immediately rushes to his mind whenever his eyes catch the slightest glimpse of a transmutation circle. Thinks of it as Understanding, Skill and Creation. Art.

She kisses his chin when, stunned by this revelation, he admits she's right.

--

_Untitled drabble:_

It has been a year, and she still has a hard time believing it.

Twelve months of daily-renewed astonishment at coming home from work and finding him there. Of waking up at night to make sure he really_ is_ sleeping beside her, of running her fingers on his bare chest for solid proof.

Ever since his mother's death, he has been evanescent, here a second and gone the next. But for the past year, her untrusting hand has only felt warm skin and strong muscles instead of empty hope.

She still has a hard time believing it. Edward came back.


	8. Life

A.n: Second attempt at a "real" drabble. Post-manga, and hopefully a glimpse into Ed and Winry's future lives?

Life

All is well.

She is warm and comfortable. Edward's hand lazily traces circles on her back, as lazily as she leans into him.

She closes her eyes, shifts to give him better access to her waist. Her breath has long since slowed down, in tune with his heartbeat. Slow, strong, serene.

His metal hand moves to her swollen belly, his lips brush the nape of her neck.

A kiss, a caress.

Another caress, this one from the inside of her womb, so light yet wonderfully unmistakable.

Her world is warmth, and the three of them.

She smiles.

All is well.


	9. Evanescence

**Spoilers:** End of series.

Evanescence

_"Though we share this humble path, alone_

_How fragile is the heart_

_Oh give these clay feet wings to fly_

_To touch the face of the stars_

_Breathe life into this feeble heart_

_Lift this mortal veil of fear_

_Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears_

_We'll rise above these earthly cares"_

- "Dante's Prayer", by Loreena McKennitt

------

Two eyes stare at her. Two bronze eyes, reddened and swollen by the tears that have left salty traces on the boy's cheek and on the back of his hands, where they've fallen without him noticing, or caring.

He startledwhen he saw her, causing the tears to stop and cling to his long eyelashes and his grip on his bed sheets to tighten.

"… Win… Winry?"

Hearing this tiny, hoarse voice sends a shiver down her spine. It's exactly the same one, down to the way it breaks, the one she remembers, the one that has resounded from the inside of an old suit of armor for five years.

"Hey Al…"

There are tears in her eyes too, and she tries to hold them back –she can't, _can't_ cry in front of Alphonse, not when _he_ isn't. Lieutenant Hawkeye's words still ring painfully in her ears, so much louder now that she has proof they were true. Winry knew she wouldn't find Edward when she got to Central's hospital.

She can't get it out of her head, Hawkeye's soft, carefully controlled voice breaking the news to her in the cold and impersonal jargon of the military –"_Missing in action"_, the Lieutenant had first said, then "_presumed dead"_-, the emptiness that swallowed her world then, narrowing it down to these few words, sucking her innocence and carefree smile out of her, and the pain, and the tears, so many tears.

At first, Winry was only able to cry and force herself to breathe, until the second part of Hawkeye's announcement sunk in. _Alphonse is alive, and has got his body back. Edward succeeded_. Alphonse was still blissfully unconscious when the Lieutenant called, but he's awake now, and obviously knows. He stares at her with eyes both hopeful and desperate and she can't, _can't_ cry in front of him.

They both stare at each other, immobile. Yes, this _is_ Winry, Alphonse thinks, he recognizes her eyes and the tears in them, and yet… not. She looks too old, her hair is too long, and the list of things he's found unexplainable since he woke up keeps getting longer.

She moves slowly towards him, their eyes still locked, and sits on the bed, her hand rising to his cheek. Alphonse is about to lean in when she freezes, drawing a deeper breath and eyes widening in sudden understanding. Only one thing could keep Edward away from his brother. That damn equivalent exchange. Winry knows that Edward wouldn't have hesitated a second to sacrifice himself if it meant Alphonse could be back to normal, if it came to that. His body for his little brother's, and he would have kept his promise.

Edward isn't "missing in action" or "presumed dead". Edward has surrendered himself to that Truth they had once told her about, to save Alphonse. It's logical, it's obvious, it makes perfect sense, how comes no one else seems to understand? Surely they would have told _her_, of all people, and spared her the agony of imagining him lost and wounded, drowning in a pool of his own blood?

She sighs, and slightly lowers her hand. It doesn't matter. Whatever happened, it doesn't change the fact that Edward is _gone_ and indeed lost, lost to them.

But Alphonse is still here, breathing and _real_. This is whom she has to concentrate on now. So she honors Edward's sacrifice, her hand finally coming to rest on the younger boy's cheek. Her fingers move to smooth the _real_ hair then back to his _real_ cheek, wiping the dissident (but _real_) tear she finds there. Alphonse is perfect.

Perfect until his chin begins to tremble, imperceptibly at first then more and more violently. Strangers have come to visit him, strangers have told him his brother has disappeared, strangers that asked him questions, strangers that seemed to know him, them, so well, but this time _he_ wants answers, and he knows he can ask Winry. Whatever happened, she's still Winry, his childhood friend and big sister. He can ask her, so he bravely swallows the lump in his throat.

"Winry… The last thing I remember is Brother and I transmuting Mom, and here I find myself without him and in a hospital bed in Central City. I don't understand, what happened? Even you have changed…"

"You… You don't remember anything after that?"

Her hand draws back as if slapped, swiftly as Alphonse slowly shakes his head. His eyes are still on her though, demanding answers, the infamous Elric determination shining in his eyes.

"That was five years ago, Al…"

She fails to hide the disappointment in her voice, and looks away. Alphonse's body having his ten-year-old appearance makes some kind of twisted sense, even to her, but his mind? His memories? So Edward has failed, after all. He was no match for the Truth, never was, and what she thought was a miracle is a flawed illusion.

Winry takes a deep breath, to suppress her disappointment, and anger. Anger at the Truth, that let a kid –because no matter how hard he tried to deny it, that's all Edward ever was- sacrifice his _life_ without granting him his last request. At Edward –how could he have _failed_? At herself, because she's well aware that she doesn't know enough to satisfy Alphonse's questioning eyes. At Edward again, because it's all his_ damn _fault she can't help the younger Elric.

She can't, but she tries anyway, for the boy's sake. She tells him everything she knows, everything she's gathered during her visits to repair Edward's automail. Alphonse drinks every word, and briefly wonders why her pride sounds so bitter when she mentions that Edward had been the youngest State Alchemist the country had ever seen.

Winry tells him everything, from the brothers' burnt home to the military chasing them. Her voice is soft, neutral, distant even, as if to make sure she won't interfere in his interpretation of the information she provides. It's just easier that way, to give a historical account of the facts and pretend she never really was part of any of this, that she wasn't left behind. She doesn't need _that_ pain now, on top of everything else. She still groans when she's done though, because she's summarized four _years_ in a couple of minutes and honestly doesn't know what to add.

She's looking away again, and Alphonse thanks her. He feels… empty. Winry doesn't know, those men in blue wouldn't say anything… That's it, then. Emptiness. He doesn't dare to ask other questions, too scared by the possibility of more hollow answers.

Emptiness, and nothing more.

The silence is becoming increasingly heavier and uncomfortable, but Winry doesn't speak either, afraid to discover other flaws. She avoids Alphonse's eyes, looks at the room she's in, but her gaze never rests on the same object for long. The room is too calm, the walls could use a new coat of paint, the silence is too thick, the day too dull. Edward's golden eyes are missing. His golden eyes, his sarcasm and sly grin.

Emptiness, and nothing more.

For the shortest second, Winry tries to convince herself that Edward _is_ going to slam the door open, furious at being kept away from his brother for so long. He will come and fill the emptiness, they will laugh together, and everything will shine again. But no matter how long she looks, stares, glares at it, the door doesn't budge.

Alphonse follows her gaze, and understands. She's waiting. She'll wait for as long as it takes for the sun to return. He doesn't remember she has already been waiting for five years. He would like to wait with her, but his tears catch up with him and start flowing again, sobs making his whole body tremble.

Winry hears him and snaps out of her trance, finally looking back at him, studying, scrutinizing his every feature. He may not be the perfect miracle she hoped for, but he _is_ Alphonse, Edward has poured his very soul into every single one of his cells, perhaps literally, and she's only looking at a little ten years old boy after all, a frightened and innocent little boy who's just learnt he has lost his last relative and _five years_ of his life.

So, gently, tenderly, she wraps her arms around him, her fingers run over his perfect skin and perfectly silky hair, holding all of Edward's love for his brother closer to her, tears coming to her own eyes. They cry for themselves, for each other and young kids with too big a heart.

Later, much later, when they have both calmed down, Winry whispers the last words she has left to say, the only words Alphonse can still hear.

_Al… Let's go home._


	10. Happy Ever After

Written for S J Smith's challenge on Livejournal. The prompt was: "The moon was the largest s/he'd ever seen."

Happy Ever After

It was happening again. Trisha lay awake for hours at night, watching the course of the moon and stars in the sky. Not restless, not nervous, just… awake. Taking in every sound, every smell and noise of a summer night in Resembool. She watched the moon grow bigger until it was full and listened to the cicadas; she watched the movement of the planets and twinkle of the stars and deeply inhaled to smell the freshly cut grass.

The lack of sleep was not a problem. As things were, she would soon have all the time in the world to sleep. Literally. Edward and Alphonse had been talking about shooting stars all day, and she firmly intended to see at least one of them tonight.

The boys were awake too; Trisha could hear their voices coming from their room next door. Despite their previous excitement, they had apparently given up on the stars and were arguing, if their intonations were any indication, Ed doing a poor job at keeping his voice down.

It was late and they were supposed to be in bed, but since finding out she was sick they had been only helpful, well-mannered and thoughtful around her. Trisha decided that letting them vent out their frustrations –she knew the house was much too calm for them to be comfortable in these days – would be better and do them some good, whatever they were arguing about. She knew they worried, even without being aware of how bad things really were.

She could not make out their words, but a dull _thud _indicated they were handling books. Alchemy, then. Trisha glanced at the paper flowers on her bedside table, her sons' latest transmuted gift. They _were_ getting better every day, and tried to include alchemy in every aspect of their lives. To help her, as they put it, and she had to giggle as she remembered Alphonse had even said he would try to find a way to transmute clothes clean so she would not have to do the laundry …

Engrossed in her musings, Trisha was almost startled when she heard a knock on her bedroom door, and told the boy –it had to be Ed or Al, who else? - to come in. Alphonse timidly opened the door, holding a book to his chest. She heard Edward whisper something behind him. "'Tis stupid, she's going to say no", something along those lines.

Turning a light on, Trisha sat up, slowly to spare her aching muscles, and waited for her youngest son to speak.

"It's just an idea we had…" _"An idea _you_ had"_, Ed interjected. Alphonse shot a dark look at his brother, and Trisha hid a smile, amused by their antics.

"It's just… remember when Ed and I were little and we couldn't sleep when we got sick? You would read us stories until we fell asleep, and the next morning we'd feel better…"

Curious, Trisha nodded.

"Well I thought that, maybe, if we read you a story tonight, you'd get better…"

A shooting star fell as her heart broke, and suddenly all she felt was the heat of the night, humid enough to be uncomfortable and make it harder to breath, sticking to her skin until it made her feel cold. It was all she could to not to break and cry and shatter in front of her son's innocence, cold, so cold…

A fairy tale. Like the ones she had told them, like the ones she had believed in herself as a child. Alphonse wanted to give fairy tales a try. Where was your fairy godmother when you needed her? Shouldn't she come, tap her wand to Trisha's chest and take the disease with her, so they could live happy ever after? And they would. That was how fairy tales ended.

She nodded again, once, hoping the movement would not spill the tears in her eyes, and Alphonse trotted to her bed, a grin adorning his still round face. He told her to lie back down and sat close to her pillow, opening his book to what Trisha recognized as his favorite bedtime story and beginning to read.

Trisha motioned to Edward to join them. She watched him fight the idea with all of his rational self before finally sighing and rolling his eyes, deciding to humor his mother and brother and their fantasy. Because that was all it was, but Trisha did not want to dwell on that.

Holding her eldest son close, she listened to Alphonse tell them –her- of fair damsels and witches, of princes on white horses overcoming insurmountable evil, of happy ever after.

She would lie to them again in the morning, to let the fairy tale last of few hours longer.


	11. Reassurance

I hope you all had a great Christmas! :)

**Warning:** Set during the latest manga chapters, so spoilers.

Reassurance

Edward carries his life in his pockets.

The silver watch, the mistake, the vow, the past, in his right one.

In the other, her earrings. Another vow, and home.

Soon, he'll go back to Resembool. It will be summer by then. The Promised Day will have come and gone, he and Alphonse will be whole again. He will be free to collapse in Winry's arms and together they'll watch Alphonse breathe, sleep, eat and _live_, and Edward will live too, oh yes he will.

Soon.

For now, his fingers brush over the items, silent comfort as he walks to war.


	12. Fairy

Fairy

Winry daydreamed about princesses and knights in shining armor when she was little, just like every other girl does.

She imagined "he" came from some exotic country to save her from many dangers, from dragons and monsters invading her kingdom to cantankerous and abusive stepmothers.

She often talked the Elric brothers into playing with her. They would use their alchemy to create a dragon - Ed made a cow once, claiming they _were_ evil, but the other two merely rolled their eyes before Al transmuted a true, scary, long-toothed _dragon _- and Winry would shriek and run for help -she couldn't defeat it alone, not even with her trusted wrench.

The boys would then transmute wooden or clay weapons and the three of them would strike at the offending sculpture until it was reduced to a dusty pile of rocks, with a profusion of cries of "Fear us, monster!", "Ha ha! Not so confident anymore, are you?" and "Flee this kingdom while you can!"

Sometimes, one of the brothers pretended to be wounded by their foe, but bravely gritted his teeth and kept fighting.

Then Ed and Al would escort Princess Winry back to her castle to celebrate their victory. Queen Sara Rockbell always had cookies or a cake ready for them, and lemonade.

Oh yes, Winry remembered those days vividly.

Years later, she couldn't help feeling that things had never really changed as she supported –almost dragged, really- a beaten, injured and feverish Ed, back from far-off Central and his war against real monsters, so much more terrifying than any one from their childhood games would ever be, to the safety of his yellow castle on the hill and loving family.


	13. Cloud Nine

**Spoilers:** Set years after "Conqueror of Shamballa".

Cloud Nine

"_Give up your way_

_You could be anything_

_Give up my way_

_And lose myself_

_Not today_

_That's too much guilt to pay"_

- Evanescence, "The Last Song I'm Wasting On You"

------

It was raining, raining hard enough to make Rush Valley's inhabitants hide away in the warm cocoons of their homes. The clouds hung low and dark, the obscurity they brought barely kept at bay by the lights that shone in every house, above closed shops, even though it was only early afternoon.

Absentmindedly looking at the downpour, Winry dusted her hands before sliding the kerchief that covered her hair back in place. Raindrops crashed down heavily on the roofs before sliding down the drainpipes, to form large puddles of muddy-brown water on the streets.

It would be a few days before the ground swallowed it all but then the desert would burst into life, grass and flowers painting it a lush green, white, blue and pink, thousands of bugs coming from who knew where bustling about around them. That was how spring went in Rush Valley. A small smile graced Winry's lips at the thought. Life's ability to make the most out of a situation never ceased to amaze her.

Kerchief firmly tied in place, Winry turned back to the room she stood in. Nine years living in this house and she hadn't been in her attic more than five times. She had decided that this was the perfect day to do some cleaning while rediscovering the long-forgotten treasures and many other items stored there in boxes. So far she'd come across old books and clothes, broken pieces of furniture –she'd have to try and repair them someday-, a white wooden cradle, and _tons_ of automail magazines. Most of them were completely out of date and had been for years, but she kept them anyway. _"Call me sentimental"_.

She moved through the boxes, opening their lids and scanning their contents, occasionally pausing when something brought back fond memories. Old photo albums, with pictures of her grandparents and of her father, then of her parents as newly-weds, their covers worn out and torn in several places. Baby clothes. Wedding gifts that she and her husband had accepted with a smile but had nonetheless quickly hidden from anyone's view. She wondered why they hadn't simply discarded them after all these years. Shrugging, she placed them on the pile of "To Throw Away" things. She put the photo albums on another pile. She'd go through them more thoroughly later.

Another box. Pictures of Den as a pup, then with her automail leg. One of Winry in her mother's arms, when she wasn't much more than a warm bundle of blankets. These pictures had been in her bedroom in Resembool, she remembered, and she sat down on the floor, looking at the snapshots of her childhood with renewed interest.

A plastic screwdriver from her very first toy tool-kit. Marbles she'd won at school. The electric blue feather of a kingfisher found by the river. These had been her prized possessions, hidden in her chest of drawers. Doodles. She'd known what they were supposed to represent, once, and now couldn't help but laugh at the thought of her four years old self holding a pencil in her little hand, intensely focused on the way she moved it on the paper. And she'd been _proud_ of the result, too. She knew a couple of people who would certainly be _very_ amused by this now.

She left them near the photo albums and got up to get yet another box, this one made of metal. One of its corners was beginning to rust, and Winry let out a disgusted sound. She was an automail mechanic; rust was _banned_ from her life. The fact that the box had spent a decade in her attic was no excuse. Berating herself, she opened it.

And froze.

And remembered why this little box had been left to rust.

And slowly lowered herself to the floor again, not trusting her legs to support her.

She had thought she had left _them_ years ago. Not downright forgetting them, she had never been that cruel or coldhearted, but locking them in some far recess of her mind, simply not thinking about them. Letting the memories and ghosts play together where they couldn't touch her. She was solid, present and real. She had refused to become one of them, fleeting and immaterial so she had left them, just like they had left her, and gone on with her life. But the world only was that big, and she always came across them, in some form, one way or another.

A red cloak. A blond ponytail. The blue light of a transmutation.

A suit of armor in the Armstrong manor. A metal right arm or left leg.

The silver pocket watch and the toothy grins on glazed paper mocking her from the bottom of the box she had just opened, golden eyes staring straight into her own, hypnotizing, burning, not letting her go, never letting her go.

For one of the first times in her life, Winry found herself at a loss as to what to do, staring wide-eyed at the pictures. She was… happy to see them, she thought. They were part of her long-dead childhood; they were afternoons spent lazily sprawled in the grass watching clouds go by; they were heartfelt laughs and whispered secrets. These photographs were the relief of seeing familiar faces in a crowd of unknown people. They were friendship, reunion, brothers. That made her happy.

But then there were other memories, memories of busted automail and armor, of barely healed wounds, of sleepless nights spent worrying, of endless waiting and broken promises and being left behind. She had never forgotten how it had felt, how it had _hurt_ to watch her wildest hopes fall and crash with that ship. It hadn't even surprised her, because that was how things had gone between them. She fixed Edward and then the brothers vanished, completely disregarding her thoughts and feelings because there were Bad Guys to defeat and worlds to save. Who was she to stop them? She looked at the smiling children in the pictures and wondered for the millionth time if she could have known, back when these photographs had been taken, if she could have imagined and done something about it. Her love and care and worries had never been enough.

_She_ had never been enough.

She had accepted that truth years ago, in the torn up streets of a broken Central. Thinking about it still made her feel a little torn up and broken herself. Another reason –and a good one, in her opinion- to leave those boys behind. Winry just couldn't decide whether to miss them or be mad at them, couldn't settle on ignoring them and being indifferent, and had left that question unanswered. She had other priorities now, and putting childhood pictures in a small metal box on top of a shelf was as much closure as she was ever going to get anyway.

A small head popped up from the trap door that lead downstairs, startling her. Blue eyes quickly scanned the room, dark blond curls following the movement. The little girl finally noticed her, face alight with excitement as she spoke.

"Mommy, Daddy says the cookies will be ready in a minute."

"I'll be down in a minute then." Winry smiled, amused as she watched her daughter nod, apparently satisfied with her mother's answer, before she slowly went down the ladder and ran to the kitchen, giggling and feet pounding down the stairs.

Different priorities indeed. Like convincing David to bake cookies with their six years old daughter on a rainy day, because not everyone felt the need to sacrifice more than what they had every time the occasion rose. Some people were actually _there_ and selfish enough to want themselves and those around them to be happy. Her husband was one of these people.

Winry had mourned the loss of the Elric brothers, the loss of _Edward_ for over five years before being able to smile at David out of something more than politeness. David had been kind and patient and, two years after Pinako's passing, she had been tired of being alone. She had given in.

She had given in only to discover that letting go was _okay_ and could even be for the best. That had been her tribute to Edward: coming to terms with her feelings for him and _moving on_. The photographs she now held in her hand, once been pinned to her wall, had been put away.

She understood the brothers' decision and silently thanked them for stopping a war, but she, Winry, had the right to be happy. She _was_ happy. Her life wasn't what the little girl drawing doodles had imagined for herself –her future had been golden even then, the golden eyes and golden hair of a golden child- but it was more than enough. It was more than what she had dared to hope for when she had left golden Resembool for the last time. She couldn't, wouldn't let memories shatter her hard-won happiness, not even for the love of _them_.

She told herself that the tears that now came to her eyes were nothing more than a reaction to the dust in the room around her. Edward and Alphonse had made their choice. She had made hers. No regrets, no more wondering "what if…?".

She heard Emma's voice calling her from the kitchen, soon followed by David's. She answered -one loud "Comin'!"- then turned back to the pictures again. With a small, sad smile, she looked at Alphonse's eyes and traced the lines of Edward's face with her finger before slowly, gently -not tenderly, she reminded herself, _not_ tenderly, they didn't deserve it anymore- putting the photographs back by the silver watch in their box and closing the lid, unconsciously mimicking her actions of years before. She got up to place it back on the shelf among other memories -where it belonged.

Emma called again and Winry moved away from the shelf, climbing down the ladder and closing the trap door, shaking her head clear and dusting her pants on her way to the kitchen.

She had no regrets and, if someone whispered "Goodbye boys…" on their way out, it wasn't her.

A.n.: This one's been in the works since September. Yes, literally. So how did I do?


	14. Crumbles

**Timeline:** Pre-manga or pre-anime, both can work.

**Warning:**Use of the f-word.

**Notes:** Inspired by the line "Le petit chat est mort" ("the little cat is dead") form one of Molière's plays. Cat = Al, so… ^^

Also, you know reviews make the day brighter, don't you? :)

Crumbles

"The little cat is dead…"

_"Brother, can we keep it? We're going to be in East City for weeks. You know Colonel Mustang won't let you go easily now that you're finally back here. Unfair? I don't know… Technically speaking, you _do_ work for him. Ah… Don't curse in public, Brother! So, can we keep it, please? At least until it gets bigger and better?_"

The armor seems to shrink when its shoulders are hunched and Al lowers his head, when he nervously twists his hands. His voice is but a whisper that Ed wouldn't hear if it didn't resonate from the hollow metal chest.

The little cat is dead. Al picked it up on a street two weeks ago. Ed still wonders how he was tricked into agreeing to keep it. He's supposed to be immune to each and every one of Al's pleading techniques. He normally _is_. Still…

The little cat is dead. Al couldn't be a more pitiful sight right now, he's all dark and grey, cold metal letting himself fall on the bed of their room. _This is wrong_, Ed thinks. The barracks are no place for his little brother. He knows he should say something - preferably not an empty and senseless "I'm sorry"- but he was never good with words. He watches Al shrink in slow motion not knowing how to react.

The little cat is dead. Ironic… Once upon a time, it was him who brought stray and injured animals home. He remembers how he argued with his mother; how he used to sulk in his room after having obeyed and put the animal back outside. It's been ten years, that's more than half his life ago. He has changed in half his life, hardened so Al wouldn't have to.

_"I'm back, Brother! How did… Oh! I didn't know you liked our kitten!"_

_"I don't. It wouldn't shut up, you weren't there to pet it so I did it, period. It's so annoying…"_

_"Come on, you would have kicked it out if you really didn't like it."_

_"Kicked it out? What kind of brother would I be if I kicked your cat out?"_

It was only temporary anyway, _"until it gets bigger and better"_. No need to kick the cat out, annoying as it was. Ed could endure its meowing, its demanding to be petted and its habit of falling asleep right against his neck for a few weeks… The soft fur tickled. _So fuckin' annoying._

Ed hasn't had any nightmare in two weeks, but that's just a coincidence, of course. The fur was ticklish, not soft or warm. That's something Al says, when playing with the cat makes him forget about his armor.

But the little cat is dead. It's weird… mourning a being you were not supposed to become attached to in the first place. He is… sad. Or so he thinks, anyway. There's this diffuse feeling at the pit of his stomach, as if it's tying into knots, but not quite. He would like to put actual words on it, and comfort Al while he's at it because that's all his brother is waiting for, he knows. All that comes is a deep, powerless sigh before he looks away. _All because of a stupid cat!_

Ed sees Al holding the kitten close to him when he closes his eyes; he sees him positively glowing with childlike joy when Ed said he could keep it. If Ed focuses enough to ignore the armor and the circumstances that led them where they are, he can almost see his brother's smile and sparkling eyes. Not imagine, but _see_. _Just like before…_ Sure, the little cat giving some of Al's innocence back to him is a beautiful thought, but Ed stopped entertaining beautiful thoughts the minute he woke up after the failed transmutation. Al still is his soft and loving self because Ed's made sure of it, because Ed's sacrificing _his_ innocence for his brother's. That's how it works. Just the two of them, no external factor.

Still the little cat is dead, and Alphonse's armor has never looked so gloomy.


	15. There, Away

**Notes and warning:** Written for the fma_fic_contest community on Livejournal; the prompt was "Illusion". Spoilers for episode 51 of the first anime, and I went italics _crazy_. Also, thanks to Tecsomane for the beta.

There, Away

He had been watching them for hours now, two boys who couldn't be older than ten and looked too much alike not to be brothers trying to make their kite fly. They ran and laughed and called out at each other before laughing again. Edward sat on a bench close enough to hear them, but the breeze whispered other laughter, other games at his ears.

It was easy, too easy then to forget the dull and grey Munich and imagine he was back in Resembool running through sunny fields, Alphonse and Winry chasing after him.

Over the days, it had become a routine. Edward would walk back to Hohenheim's place from the library through the park, sit on a bench, hide behind a newspaper and listen to the kids playing, leaving only after they did. He would reminisce.

It was a small, twisted kind of comfort after the long hours of fruitless research spent bent over dusty pages. He would have to face the bastard afterwards and answer his questions, grudgingly admitting defeat -but there were still other books in the library, many, many books that could hold a clue to opening the Gate; he hadn't _failed_ yet, he wasn't hopeless, _never_-, before the night and the inevitable nightmares came.

He was getting tired of them, really. As brilliant as it was supposed to be, his mind terribly lacked originality when it came to nightmares: his mother, first as the monster he and Al had created then turning into Sloth the homunculus, lashing at him with her long, water-made arms, a sadistic smile on her once soft, loving face. The same abomination, this time _his_ doing only, speaking to him with his brother's voice deformed by panic and pain, calling for help, pleading, accusing, asking why why _why_ he had broken his promise to get it its real body back. Winry usually joined it then, kneeling at its side and screaming at Edward with curses of her own and haunted tears in her eyes because it was all _his. Damn. Fault_. Eventually he woke up panting and sweating in another world, always needing a few seconds to realize he had, indeed, stopped dreaming.

Wake up, go through the day, nightmares, repeat. Edward knew what to expect and taking a break in a park on a summer afternoon simply was too appealing. It was all the respite and rest he would get.

The day was breezy enough that the boys' kite flew well, surfing the wind and soaring high before falling back to the ground, until one of the boys jerked the rope attached to it and upwards it went again. It was distracting, hypnotizing even, just what Edward needed.

As it was, it would have been impossible for him to miss the kite getting stuck in a nearby tree, out of the boys' reach. He watched them struggle to get it back, the younger brother even climbing on top of the eldest's shoulders, in vain. The kite was too high. They looked around themselves in search of a solution to their problem, their eyes lighting up when they fell upon him.

Edward was walking toward them before they could say anything.

Of course he would help them. The Alchemist of the People wouldn't decline an opportunity to help, especially if it made him feel tall. It was always a pleasure, really.

"There you go, boys", Edward couldn't help grinning as he turned toward the kids to hand them their kite. Ah, feeling tall. He loved it. The brothers quickly inspected it and, finding no damage, looked back towards him, smiling from ear to ear.

"Thank you, sir! That was very kind of you and… Oh, sorry, we've got to go, Mom's coming", Chuckling, Edward called after them - "See you around, boys!"- before his eyes came to rest on the person they were running to.

Their mother.

No, _his_ mother. His mother the woman, his mother the failed transmutation, his mother the homunculus. Mother.

Her sons apparently told her about their little adventure because she raised her head - such fine, delicate features - to look at him - green eyes, of course, of _course_, even her dress was the right shade of mauve. She smiled - warm, kind, how many years had he longed to see this smile? She smiled then took her sons by the hand and walked away, leaving him, Edward, behind and alone in the windy park. He could have cried at the irony.

His mother. His _mother _but no, not really, right there before his eyes. Surely the inhabitants of the Gate were laughing at him now that he discovered just what kind of fine hell they had prepared for him.

Edward wanted to run, to scream, he wanted his mother to hold him - he would even let this woman do it, if she wanted to, but it would be so very, very wrong, the thought terrified him -, he… he ran. To Hohenheim the bastard, the alchemist, the other stray who knew about this place and its familiar faces, all the while hating himself for running away from his _mother_.

He had to find a way out of this world. Fast.

-----------------------------------------

A.N.: You know reviews make my day, don't you? :D


	16. Your Misfortune None Of My Own

**Timeline:** Post-manga.

**Rating:** PG

**Summary:** Ed always had bad timing. _Very_ bad timing.

**Warnings**: None.

**A.n.:** Written for the community fma_fic_contest on Livejournal with the prompt "Equivalent Exchange" and inspired by S J Smith's fic "Miss the Journey". The title is from a song from "The Horse Whisperer" OST by Thomas Newman.

_"She loved me, sometimes I loved her._

_How could I not have loved her large, still eyes? _

_I can write the saddest poem of all tonight._

_To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her. _

_To hear the immense night, more immense without her._

_And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass."_

Saddest Poem - Pablo Neruda

Your Misfortune (None of My Own)

"It's good to be home, isn't it Brother?"

"Yep. Can't believe it's been this long."

Months, or years maybe, Edward wasn't sure.

Father had been defeated and they had been caught in another whirlwind. General-Bastard Mustang was just that good at putting things a way neither Ed nor Al could refuse.

It was very simple logic, but the Elrics knew simple things could be treacherous. The newly established Parliament wanted Amestrians citizens' trust in the government and in the military reinforced. Amestrians citizens trusted the Elric Brothers. The Elric Brothers could either say yes or no.

You-know-I'll-never-be-able-to-live-with-myself-if-I-say-it no.

_"Oh and, by the way, you _do_ know you're indebted to us, don't you?"_ Mustang had had the nerve to add.

As he had predicted, the brothers had said yes.

They had roamed the country, a well-groomed dog of the military in a spotless uniform with his diplomat of a brother in a just-as-spotless suit traveling in concentric circles that had finally led them back to Resembool.

In Resembool, sheep bleated and Edward heard a bell ring, white cotton candy clouds slowly drifted across the sky, indolent.

Some things never changed, which was just as well.

A few well-deserved days off seemed to be in order.

******

Ever-curious Alphonse asked about the unusually large crowd they saw right outside the church on their way through the town. Edward would have, too, if not for some sixth sense painfully gained over the years that told him he would not like the answer.

_"It's the Rockbell girl's wedding"_, the man had said. _"The whole town's there."_

Edward had learned to trust his instincts.

He caught a glimpse of white and gold in the crowd, and looked away.

******

Alphonse stared ahead in disbelief for several seconds before turning to him, growing more suspicious by the second.

"Brother, did you know about this?"

He had every right to be, too.

"… No. The invitation probably came while we were away."

It was an explanation, and a likely one at that. Alphonse frowned - he knew Ed well enough to doubt him on _that_ particular topic - but slowly seemed to buy it, albeit reluctantly. They _had_ been traveling for weeks and had come straight from East City, and maybe he was imagining things and Ed's poker face wasn't _too_ blank.

He didn't really need to know that said invitation had come long ago in a light blue envelope and was now sitting on Edward's desk, back in Central, opened and read, crumpled then smoothed out again. There had been only one for the two of them, but Winry of all people knew that where one Elric went, the other followed. She had simply made things easier for herself and, unknowingly, for Edward.

Edward wouldn't tell Alphonse either about the short message Winry had added to the more formal letter.

_"Hey guys, _

_I know you're busy but please try to make it, okay? You're family. I can't get married without my brothers there!_

_Take care,_

_Winry."_

Except she had. Ed suddenly wondered who had given her away.

******

Winry eventually noticed them standing a few feet away from the other guests still holding their suitcases, and promptly dragged her new husband towards them.

Her day just kept getting better.

She was... beautiful, Ed thought, glowing in her white gown and as happy as he had ever wanted to make her.

She had said they were family. Until then, Edward would never have imagined he could find that word so… shallow. Despicable, even.

Winry had made a new one for herself, and he wasn't part of it.

How long had Ed been gone and out of her life, that he had never even met the man in person? Winry had mentioned him several times - once she had stopped wondering if Ed would get jealous and realized he had absolutely no right to be. Edward remembered that much although he would be hard-pressed to repeat _what_ she had said about her then-boyfriend.

"David, these are Edward and Alphonse Elric; I've told you about them."

If he had replied to her letters, or talked more on the rare occasions where she had managed to contact them by phone… Alphonse had, except for that invitation.

"Indeed. I hear the three of you are like siblings."

If he had only just _listened_ - to Al, to Winry, to Mustang and his team, to the nagging voice at the back of his head…

At least David was glowing too. At least _he_ seemed to realize how lucky he was.

They shook hands - he used his left one when he turned to Ed because, of course, _he_ paid attention to what Winry said. He was tall and lean, with black hair and eyes; he probably was everything Winry had ever wanted and Edward had never been.

And Edward could only blame himself for it.

It was a small wonder that she had invited him at all, had even bothered to keep him updated.

She hugged the brothers, all smile and bright eyes. She was speaking and, this time Edward forced himself to concentrate on her words. "I'm so happy you're here". "We'll catch up later". There had never been the slightest trace of resentment in Winry's voice.

_"See? I'm still the girl you could have loved."_

He barely had time to whisper "Congratulations, Sis'" in her ear before she moved to thank other guests, David following her closely.

Sis. Right. Family would have to do, now.

If he hugged her just a little tighter and longer than necessary, she had the grace not to comment on it.

******

They say it takes people seven minutes to fall asleep. Edward counted seven then seven more, staring at the white ceiling turned a dull yellow by the light on his bedside table.

Alphonse was asleep in the other bed or, most likely, pretending to be. He had spent the entire afternoon looking at Ed out of the corner of his eye. He probably still was, listening to the seconds ticking away in his brother's head.

Four hundreds and twenty seconds more and Edward lost count.

This was not his room. This was Resembool but not _home_. The thought was unnerving.

This was Winry's wedding night. _That_ thought made him restless. This was Winry's wedding night in all Amestris - Ed suddenly envisioned the country as a turbulent child he firmly expected to behave tonight because it was _such_ a special night and nothing, _nothing_ should disturb such a night. This was why he and Al had rented a room at the local inn rather than stayed at the Rockbell house, like Winry had offered.

As if they would have agreed to staying with her, with _him_, on Winry's wedding night. Edward was clueless and oblivious but he knew what happened on such nights.

He began counting again.

In the morning he would be the first customer of the station and buy two tickets on the first train out of town.

Alphonse would understand and follow him without question, as usual. He could only hope that Winry would not be too disappointed and mad at him. Again.

He knew he was going to miss her.


	17. Ashtray Lying Still

**Timeline:** Post CoS

**Rating:** PG-13? 15? There are references to alcohol and sex, (one) use of the f-word and ANGST.

**Character:** Winry.

**Disclaimer:** I AM NOT WORTHY (i.e. no, it's not mine).

**Note:** I haven't posted FMA fanfic in almost a _year_. What the hell. This was written for October 3rd, 2009. Obviously I didn't finish it in time! :-D

Ashtray (Lying Still)

October the 3rd, 1921. No, it's long passed midnight. October the 4th, then. Good. It takes away the symbolism, as if I wasn't fated to end up in a bar drinking… vodka, on October the 3rd. There once was a house on fire on October the 3rd; fire in my throat would only be fitting. But I don't care about fate; I don't even like the concept of it. It's too much of a convenient excuse for lazy people. I'm not lazy, not even on Remembrance Day.

Strange, drinking vodka (or any other kind of alcohol for that matter) doesn't make me feel all grown-up and cool. They're like this, half of the people in this bar, holding their glass as if it enlightened them: _I drink; therefore I'm cooler, wiser, better, than you, sober girl_. I feel like a little girl, like when I was six years old and told Granny I couldn't go to bed because Mommy and Daddy weren't there to kiss me goodnight.

I couldn't go to bed tonight either, that's why I'm here. It's been gnawing at me all night, an insidious hissing acid voice at the back of my mind. I can't go to bed. Fellow automail mechanics knocked on my door at about ten; already drunk and on their way to celebrate someone's birthday. They wanted me to come along. I agreed, not because I like spending a night in a bar with people who somehow enjoy drinking themselves sick, stupid and senseless, but because I couldn't go to bed. It happens once in while. I should count days, maybe it's a cycle; maybe it's perfectly predictable. I know the reason for this, of course. I usually spend those nights on the couch, analyzing and theorizing, taking it apart before putting the pieces back together because that's what I'm good at, that's what I do for a living (Rockbell Automail - business hours: 9 to 5, Monday to Saturday).

_They're almost afraid to come into her room after her initial outburst, but their mother's words are still fresh in their minds: their friend is hurting; she needs them there. They go back to her house because, as little as they know at six years old, they do understand about sadness - some days it's all over their mother's face, delicately sewn into the lines of her skin -, maybe even about pain. _

_She's lying curled up on her bed, facing the door - it could be only a bad dream, her parents could come home and walk through her door to tuck her in, she _can't_ miss them if they do - something terrible will happen if she misses them coming in, they could really die. Even at six, the boys don't like what they see in their friend's eyes when she recognizes them. Disappointment. Pain. She really is hurting; more tears fall on her mattress._

_"Granny said you should try to sleep, Winry."_

_Disappointment, pain, anger. She'll miss her parents coming back to see her if she sleeps and then they'll be gone forever (and she'll be parentless forever after), can't the boys see? How can she sleep?_

I can't, Edward. You're not here. Kiss me goodnight?

_She shakes her head and tries to look at them defiantly but they won't be scared out of her house, this time. They sit on her bed instead - Al first, then Ed - and lay a hand on her back and shoulder. _

_She did end up falling asleep and, as expected, never saw her parents again. Ed and Al were still there though, curled up beside her on her bed. At first she resented them for not waking her when her parents had come (because they _had_, they _had_ to have come). Now she knows better._

No Ed, no Al, no Granny, no Mom, no Dad. I'm not lazy; I'm pathetic.

Three in the morning, head on the table. There are about twenty people around it, all more or less drunk, all more or less comatose. I'm no better, sitting cross-legged on my chair with my cheek resting on the table - the right one, my neck is too stiff for me to be comfortable when I put the left one down. Guess I spent too many hours bent over automail today. Whatever.

Everything, sound, light and motion, is so… slow, as if moving through water.

I look up, slightly. The guy on my left and the girl on his left are eating at each other's face, rather than kissing (the other half of the people in this bar: _I've got a drink _and_ a fuck buddy, I'm _so_ much better than you, baby_). She's moaning; I wish she would stop. She's making the tables and the alcohol, the people, everyone, the entire place, seem dirty and disgusting. I rub non-existent filth off my arm, slow and awkward; I'm too drunk and too lonely for my movements to be coordinated, not that anyone cares. The bar _is_ dirty in the middle of the night though, what with drinks spilt on the tables and ground and the clouds of smoke that cling to the walls and ceiling. It's not Granny's sweet-scented tobacco either, it's acrid and burns in my lungs, but coughing would be too uncomfortable in the position I'm in and frankly, one gets used to it after a while. Impressive really, the number of things one can get used to.

I wish I could go to Xing, see its architecture and art, learn about its refined culture. Xing is always sunny and warm-but-not-too-much and colorful and beautiful in my mind. I'd go and then I'd come back, and I'd tell Ed and Al about it. They would love it.

The rest of the people around the table, they're all talking about their latest date or the next one, and exchanging tips on how to get them into their beds. None of them cares about Xing or Granny's tobacco, or even about Ed and Al. Fire in my throat. Fire in my eyes, but it already is October the 4th. I guess I can go to sleep, now.


End file.
